


Unexpected Liasons

by DraconicSeraphim



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: BDSM Scene, Bondage, Breathplay, F/M, Face Slapping, Gellert Grindelwald Being Creepy, Hair-pulling, Power Dynamics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-06
Updated: 2017-01-10
Packaged: 2018-09-15 04:01:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9217931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DraconicSeraphim/pseuds/DraconicSeraphim
Summary: When Picquery reminds Graves that he's due for a performance review the last thing Gellert expects is to be manhandled in Graves' own home. Clearly he missed this arrangement in the memories he'd skimmed off Percival Graves.Hopefully he can keep up the pretense.... and make Seraphina happy.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> More Tags will be added as I figure out precisely what Madam President's kinks are.
> 
> Original Prompt:  
> When Grindelwald assumes Graves' identity, he doesn't know Graves is regularly "entertaining" the president - mauybe he doesn't dig that deep, maybe the memories are kept in a pensieve because they are potentially damaging, maybe she obliviates him after every encounter, maybe he just doesn't care. 
> 
> Grindelgraves can't risk fighting her at this junction so he has to play along when he is invited to entertain her - the catch? He's gay. He's never been with a woman, has NO idea what to do with one. 
> 
> Cue Picquery punishing "Percy" for being a naughty boy who is not doing his job 
> 
> Please no "eww ladyparts" reaction or transphobia 
> 
> Bonus  
> \+ Grindelgraves on his knees  
> ++ pet names and mild humiation  
> +++ grindelwald being grateful when she fucks him with a strap on because this at least he knows how to deal with

“Graves.” He stopped mid-stride, turning just enough to look back over his shoulder at the president. Her tone was quiet, as always, but firm in a way that even he could appreciate. It reminded him, in a way, of Albus, the way his old friend had spoken to his sister when she was having one of her fits. Perfectly calm and measured but with a thread of steel. 

He merely raised a brow and waited for her to say whatever it was she wanted before he returned to Graves’ office for two more hours of useless paperwork.

“You’re overdue for your review.” The faintest tilt of her lips and Gellert had to wonder once more what had inspired the woman to do quite so much training in occlumency. It would really be so much easier if he could read _her_. Still he was vaguely aware that quarterly reviews were part of the staff evaluation, though it hardly seemed the right time for such a thing. There was chaos in the streets and she wanted to review his performance _now_?

“Of course, Madam President.” Gruff but obliging and he nodded his head, expecting something more from her. Her lips only curved up another fraction of an inch into something one might almost be able to call a smirk. Then she turned and swept from the room, clearly not expecting him to follow her. Odd.

Once he returned to the office he eyed the growing stack of paperwork and wondered, disinterestedly, if that was what this review was to be about. Then he sat down to skim through the memories he had borrowed from Graves, trying to recall the last such meeting they’d had. It would give him some better direction on how to handle criticism. Thankfully Goldstein had given him the perfect excuse for his slacking on paperwork and other such matters in this whole fiasco with the Second Salemers. They’d demanded so much of his attention recently, not the least of which had been dedicated to insinuating himself with that pathetic man-child. 

He shuddered, scowling at the mundane routine of this life, this ruse. Percival Graves, while convenient, was a dreadfully boring man.

He’d almost forgotten Picquery’s comment on his review when a memo mouse came skittering onto his desk, unfolding itself neatly across the middle of the report he was reading. Gilded edges and violet ink gave away the memo’s sender without a second glance. It was the message itself that got another look from him. It said, very simply, **7 o’clock**.

That was all. No location, no signature, no indication of who it had come from other than the ink. Gellert frowned, Graves features falling comfortably into the familiar expression and he sighed all over again. Imitating this man’s habits was getting tiresome. Still, if he was to be seeing the president for a meeting so late then he had things to attend to, not the least of which was visiting the boy once again, infuriating child. 

He returned to the office just after 6, long since ready to return to Graves’ brownstone and finally let himself be himself again for a small while. He was only just getting on the elevator when he saw Picquery herself stepping into a floo and then she was gone, looking a touch more exhausted than usual, her bag in hand. Had she forgotten about this review already? She’d only asked a few hours ago but…

He wasn’t about to argue his good fortune, though. Gellert would much rather do this whole evaluation come morning. Perhaps that was what she had meant too, that she would see him first thing, before anyone else came in. So he stepped off the elevator before it had a chance to move, expression softening as much as he dared allow as he stepped out into the cool autumn air, rounding a corner and apparating away. 

The entire thing was far from his mind as he sat at the small but elegant table in Graves’ kitchen, listening to the radio and penning letters to key members of his regime back in Europe. Planning attacks and keeping his supposed appearances scattered and unpredictable. He sipped slowly at a glass of dragon barrel brandy, 1810, the only thing the bloody American seemed to have good taste in was his liquor and Gellert took a certain joy in seeing how low the bottle had gotten over the past months.

It was precisely a minute to 7 when the wards around the building started humming in the back of his mind and then a swift, confident knock. Papers folded themselves, ink crawled back into the pot, words shifted and jumbled, taking on new forms. Gellert stood, checked himself in the mirror to ensure his appearance was a solid as it needed to be, and moved to answer the door, glass in hand. The knob was barely finished turning when Seraphina Picquery herself strode into the living room, cheeks a little flushed from the cold, thick golden curls skimming over her shoulders instead of wrapped neatly and out of the way. Gellert took a quick swig of brandy, hiding his surprise at her presence.

It wasn’t until she’d set a bag on the coffee table and turned to face him, her usual careful wards looser here in a place she considered comfortable that he really got a glimpse of what she’d come here for. A fleeting image of Graves on his knees before her, bare-chested and hungry for her approval. One elegant brow rose as her gaze swept over him in disapproval, long fingers reaching out to pluck the glass from his fingers, tipping her head back to swallow what was left as her other hand flicked her wand in the direction of the door. Gellert felt her shields, carefully laced within Graves’ own magic, dormant until she called for them (not unlike the man himself, it seemed) slammed into place and a wicked smile curved her lips. 

“Really, kitten? That’s how you’re going to answer the door for me?.”


	2. Chapter 2

**_Kitten?!_ **

Indignation flashed across his face before he schooled his expression back into something more neutral. He didn’t have time to be angry about this turn of events, he needed to respond and to respond correctly. There were so many connections he could lose, months of work, and most of all the obscurus that was only just now beginning to make itself known. It would be so easy to challenge her, end her… but the wards alone would make his escape after difficult. 

He could ponder on how in Merlin’s name he’d missed this in Graves’ memories later, for now he needed to skim whatever he could from Picquery’s mind to give him some sort of guidance on how to respond to all of this. Clearly there was a power dynamic here that he’d already fumbled by simply answering the door instead of waiting obediently for her like a _pet_. It made his skin crawl, the idea of surrendering to this woman, surrendering power that he had spent so very many years amassing despite all resistance. Now to have to play this game-

A flick of her wand and suddenly the wall was solid against his back, wrists bound together by invisible ties and held aloft, his toes only just touching the floor and Gellert bared his teeth, snarling before he could stop himself.

Which was, apparently, the correct response because Picquery smiled again, dark eyes glittering with amusement.

“Oh? Is that how we’re going to play today?” Her wand slid into a holster in her sleeve and Gellert noted it’s precise location even as he focused on evening his breaths, quieting his own emotions and trying to find some logic that would explain Graves’ motivations. The whispers and impressions he could pick up from Picquery were surprisingly affectionate considering the situation he was in and he made a note, once again, to revisit Graves’ memories on her and ensure she did not begin to question his loyalties. 

This wasn’t something that happened often, only when they were both at their wits end with stress. That was clear by the absence of recent memories in Graves’ mind and the eagerness in Picquery’s. Too long, five months since she’d had him at her mercy. Gellert swallowed hard, feeling an echoing shiver of that hunger ripple through him. Oh how she _wanted_ and he let a soft growl rumble through his chest, echoing what he found in her memories and watching goosebumps break out over her skin. 

Graves, always so carefully in control of every situation, surrendered his precious control to one of two people he trusted enough to be that vulnerable with. Savoring the release of the bonds of duty and responsibility. Seraphina, always fighting to keep control of an ever more chaotic city and here, with this man, she knew every step, every answer, every response before it came. It reaffirmed her control when things were at their worst. 

Gellert would have grinned, cackled madly at the revelation, if he could have. It was so simple, so logical, and so _very_ useful. He could do what was needed for the cause, for Graves’ dear Madam President and file all of this away for later use. Certainly there would be plenty of ways he could use this information.

Violet painted nails skimmed over his cheek and dark eyes that were not his own focused on the woman before him again. Another soft growl and he strained at his bonds, making her breathing deepen, watching this powerful man bound to her will. The expression slipped, a briefly feral grin chasing across Gellert’s lips. He knew that feeling so very intimately. The heady rush of power at having someone you knew to be so skilled at your mercy. 

Brushing her mind, siphoning that thrill from her made his own responses more convincing. Bound and deprived of control was rather the opposite of arousing for him but Graves it seemed thrived under that careful restriction. 

“You know better than to fight me, kitten.” She purred, nails drifting from his cheek down to his throat and, despite the threat, Gellert snarled again, leaning away from the wall and leaving his teeth bared as her fingers closed over his throat with just the faintest pressure. It was a warning, one he did not heed, pushing forward, daring her.

The room spun briefly around him as his head snapped back against the wall, deceptively strong fingers clenching tight over his windpipe, air gone and nails carving into the tendons of his neck. 

She calls him kitten because he was in Wampus. It’s a distant, dazed kind of realization and the pet name suddenly made so much sense from Graves’ memories of Perfect Picquery, two years his junior yet constantly scolding him at school. 

He’s still straining, still fighting her and the grip on his throat does not falter for even a moment. There’s an understanding there, a knowledge that he cannot simply let himself go. He needs the fight, to be made to submit. The days she comes and he’s already kneeling and waiting for her are the days she wonders if she asks too much of him, if the job will one day break him. The fight, the pride, the attitude reassure her that he is strong, strong enough to endure all she puts him through here and in the office.

It isn’t until dark spots flicker at the edge of his vision that he finally relents, shoulders and arms losing their tension, letting her hold his head up with the weight of her hand at his throat. Her breath shudders out, fingers turning gentle, carding through his hair. Gellert tries to clear his head of the rushing of his blood in his ears, the way his ragged breaths burn in his chest and spark an infuriating heat in his blood. 

It would be useful, certainly, but there’s only so much his pride will endure and the idea of this woman gaining such a reaction from him nearly makes him scoff in distaste.

Not that it would have mattered as her hand finds his cheek, hard and swift, the crack echoing in the quiet of the room and his head snapping to the side. His eyes fly wide, staring incredulously at her, mind reeling as he tried to keep up with the sensations, the expectations, the onslaught of conflicting input from both his mind and his nerves. 

Oh, the pomade. He’s meant to have cleaned his hair before she arrived and now her fingers cannot glide through it as easily as she wants. The slap was a punishment then and so too was the flood of hot water that flowed over him now, leaving his shirt and vest clinging to his shoulders and, with another flick of the wand, his hair clean and soft and she drew his head back with it, teeth catching at his lower lip as he cursed Graves’ lacking height once again. 

He wasn’t even aware of the fact that he was moving until his knees were pressed onto cool hardwood, his back arched and shoulders stretched to meet the new anchoring position of his wrists. It was a familiar position, one Graves’ body had been in many times though he had to wonder where the knowledge came from precisely. He blinked, focusing up on ‘Phina again. How many years had it been since he’d just absorbed the thoughts of those around him, since his careful control had slipped enough to stop blocking out all but what was useful to him? It was enough to make fear flicker through him in a way he hadn’t felt in more years than he could name.

She called him kitten, he called her ‘Phina… only sometimes Madam and always when he was weakest. 

The trickle of fear had him reaching desperately for her mind, fumbling a bit compared to the liquid ease with which he could usually slink through another’s thoughts, searching for the word that would end this game before it became something too dangerous.

And then he found it, simple and mocking and he knew he’d die before he spoke the spell he had no power to enforce like this.

_’Finite’_


	3. Chapter 3

Restrained as he was Gellert was forced to sit back on his heels, refusing to let himself squirm even to ease the ache in his shoulderblades. Seraphina stepped back from him, her hands and magic both leaving him and giving him a moment to collect his thoughts. Would it really be so terrible if he revealed himself now? Wandless magic to free himself from these bonds would be a simple matter for him though he knew it would be a fierce struggle for Graves. If he broke free, destroyed this ruse and ended Picquery’s game he could restore his pride.

But his plans would be utterly ruined, left in shambles that he would be hard pressed to salvage.

He would look at it as a challenge, then. Keeping one step ahead of Picquery’s games. Oh it would destroy her later to know that she had been so intimate with him and it wasn’t the man she trusted but the very man her entire organization was bending over backwards to find. All the Aurors of the world looking for him while Madam President is too busy fucking him to realize. There was a satisfaction to that and it quelled the whispers of fear that his own loss of control prompted. 

He focused on her, carefully eyeing the array of implements she was withdrawing from her purse, laying them neatly across the smooth surface of Graves’ coffee table. Elegant fingers lingered over the lines and curves of varied objects, almost entirely wooden rods of varying lengths, a few wide flat paddles. Woods from something pale and springy, to a deep violet wood that thudded ominously on the table. There was even a wide bamboo and rattan something or other that looked oddly like a clover in it’s design. 

Well, certainly good to know he could step up his work with Graves without worrying over breaking the foolish man. 

There was something distinctly exhilarating about the game of anticipation Picquery was playing, leaving him there, bound and waiting while she slowly displayed all the tools she meant to use on him. Dark eyes widened without his permission when she drew the last items from her bag, a thick handled leather flogger, heavy and smooth. Another followed the first, this one with fine delicate falls that were tied into vicious knots at the ends. Last came the long curling tail of a snake whip, three and a half feet of exquisitely crafted leather, stained a deep mahogany red. 

Another day he’d be certain to steal that from her, it looked quite lovely and he rather liked the image of Graves kneeling at his feet awaiting its bite.

A flicker of a memory, longing he’d determinedly put aside decades ago, disheveled copper curls and pale skin, startlingly blue eyes hazy with lust. Would Albus have ever entertained his darker desires?

He growled softly, forcing the memory away, straining against his bonds, squirming pride be damned. The growl deepened into something more threatening when Picquery hummed an amused chuckle, threading idle fingers into his hair. “Now, now kitten.” She crouched down beside him, folding herself neatly next to him and as her hand drifted down over his shoulder both his shirt and vest vanished. “Patience is a virtue.” A purred tease as fingers cupped his chin, drawing his head to the side. Then her lips were on his and Gellert froze for a fleeting moment.

Pain, the shift of power between them, it was a game he knew well. Though he was usually on the other side it was familiar. This was a little different and he abruptly wondered just how far this would go. He’d entertained dozens of people, trailed them along to get what he needed with lingering touches and sometimes a little more. Over the years he’d found men to need a payoff before surrendering their secrets. Women, however, romanticized the promise, relished the anticipation, savored the idea of taming the wildest of hearts. Which was all well and good for him because he’d never had to sink to this kind of intimacy with a woman. 

Until now.

She kissed him and he had to make a conscious effort not to curl his lip but to, instead, lean into it. Intellectually he was aware, of course, that she was attractive. He rarely sought partners for their appearance, however. Sex and intimacy were, like any other form of social currency, tools to be used. A means to an end. While he would never seek out a woman for his own needs, no he preferred long lean lines, muscle and strength bowed and supplicant beneath him, it wasn’t as though they were any more distasteful than others. Depending on the woman, that is. And here was one who wielded such power as to be breathtaking in her own right.

Were their roles reversed.

Picquery drew back from the _merciful_ gentleness of the kiss and Gellert swallowed his scoff, leaning into her, chasing the warmth of her lips. The gesture reminded him of the Salem boy and the way he sought his touch so eagerly. It made him sick, replicating the motions of something so disgusting, so pathetic. It was what her kitten would do, though, and as such he had little choice in whether is pride was to be maintained.

Then the woman stood, finally removing the long velvet coat she wore, lips curving into a wicked smile as her fingers moved to unbutton her blouse. Which confirmed his suspicions on just how far this was meant to go. He bit the inside of his cheek, trying not to let his exasperation and frustration show on his face. Finally he settled on leaving his head bowed so he didn’t have to try to fake the look of hunger and desire she expected. After so much fight it was a drastic change but he wasn’t sure he could mimic that look on Graves’ face. It wasn’t a look he’d practiced, after all. He hadn’t expected to need it. 

He’d have to find something internal he could focus on to remain, ah- _engaged_ in the proceedings. Again azure eyes darkened with need peering up at him through ruddy hair came to mind and he viciously pushed the memory aside. No. He’d not use those memories, not like this.

Then he recalled, again, the Salem boy. His Credence. A squib certainly and meek as a kitten. He nearly chuckled aloud at the thought. Gellert couldn’t help wondering what the boy would be like in his position though. Horrified at himself and so desperately needy he’d be helpless to his own body. It was a pleasant thought.

And the boy did have the loveliest mouth.


End file.
